Loyalty
by cocoartist
Summary: Loyalty goes both ways. Lord Voldemort learns the price of hypocrisy, greed, and broken promises. [Gift fic] [One-shot] COMPLETE.


**Loyalty**

* * *

 ** _Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look._**

 ** _He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous._**

* * *

 _I - the numbers._

It's been seven years.

Seven years since Harry Potter died and they won the war. Seven years since his Lord restored Barty's soul to him. Seven years since he was awarded a Mudblood prize.

And all is not well.

Seven years since he thought the world was theirs and that everything had been _worth_ it. Seven years since he believed with every fibre that made him that the sacrifices he'd made had lead to everything he'd believed in. That the death of his mother, his imprisonment, the horrifying, soulless years in limbo, seven years since those seemed like worthwhile means to an end that they'd _achieved._

 _._

It's been six years since it became clear that the Dark Lord had no real interest in suppressing Mudbloods. Six years since Barty felt his loyalty begin to fray.

He'd been _promised_. Promised a utopia of purity.

But now the Mudbloods are back at Hogwarts, registered, certainly but encouraged to mix in the world. _There aren't enough wizards left_ , the Lord told them. _It is_ necessary _._

 _I have researched,_ he told Barty in private. _It is clear that combining the blood can make for stronger magic. You will trust me on this._

 _._

It's been three years since he learned he'd been following a _half-blood_ to hollow glory. His Mudblood told him, and he'd refused to believe her but –

He remembered her from classes. He'd checked. Researched.

.

Two years since his Lord had ordered him to take a half-blood to wife and he'd refused. Two years since _she'd_ enraptured him after all that time, since he accepted the wrongness of _everything_ and determined to set the world burning.

Two years since he begun to plan and plot against him, alone in his room. Never speaking the words aloud -

.

The reign lasted eight years in total, but now he is free. They are all free.

He has no master. He can't remember how long it has been since he had no master. He has killed him, just as he killed his father.

Loyalty goes _both_ ways.

He'd had to kill the Dark Lord, though. The man had demanded a loyalty due only to gods, and he'd once believed Voldemort _was_ almost a god and then he'd betrayed them with false promises, brought their world to its knees in a quest not for the pureblood Arcadia they'd imagined but for his own personal power.

And the world looks little changed from before the war, except emptier and poorer.

.

It has been one year since he accepted his Mudblood was _equal_.

One year since she'd called him _Brutus_ and tasked him from her chains.

.

.

.

II: the girl.

She has more loyalty in her smallest toe than the purest bred Malfoy in his entire body and soul, and Barty _respects_ loyalty. More than anything. But _loyalty goes both ways_. Voldemort's did not. It was demanded and when the demand changed _you changed or broke._

But he was dead now, he was broken, and gone and they were free.

He hands her a wand. She's earned it, more than earned it, and he can only hope – the loyalty she felt, _never gave up_ to those who'd died years before, loyalty he'd tried to destroy in every way possible – he can only hope that loyalty will be given to him.

He loves her, this brave, clever woman. She has all his loyalty now and if she leaves he thinks he will die. She ripped his world to pieces; slowly, gradually, _agonisingly_ she shattered the very fibres of who he'd been piece by piece, and the she stitched him back up.

He had loathed her, before. Or - not loathed, not seen her as equal enough for that. Dismissed. She'd been handed to him as a great honour, _Harry Potter's best friend,_ in recognition of his unwavering loyalty and sacrifices.

He hadn't _wanted_ her - and a servant forbidden from using magic was pointless. But you did not refuse a gift from the Dark Lord, and he had been _proud_ because they'd all wanted this one. They tried to barter for her, later, wanted to do unspeakable things, things he'd believed even Mudbloods were too low for.

 _It would be beastiality_ , he'd told Lucius. (How wrong he'd been).

 _She is_ my _prize, to flaunt or not as I wish,_ he'd told Travers when the man _begged_ for a turn with her at a Revel.

But they'd made him wonder –

.

He'd kept her far away, first out of revulsion, and later out of fear at his own curiosity, warning her to stay out of sight, to clean and cook and assist the House Elf and never never never to show her face when he had guests. Let them think her dead or chained - anything but rape her on his floors.

It hadn't been kindness, not then.

Because he'd remembered the girl at that damned silly ball, how every male eye had been awed by her – how she'd been blossoming on the verge of womanhood

\- and the _temptation_ to do what they all expected he'd do anyway was – But he didn't. It was _disgusting._

.

He'd come home, five years ago, in a half-drunk and raging, ten minutes of Crucio (punishment for protesting) down the night Lord Voldemort told him the Mudbloods would no longer be confined to Hufflepuff and –

 _She'd_ put him to bed, washed his sweating face, fetched him a potion and for some reason he'd grabbed her hand and asked her how she'd cheated her way to top of the year when her magic was _stolen_ and her blood running with filth.

She'd smiled at him, unbroken, and said, "I don't think you really believe that. You were my teacher, once, after all."

After that he'd locked up in a cage for a week.

But it hadn't _worked_. He'd tried torturing her for her insolence - for daring to exist, for daring to _shine_ \- with isolation and with curses, with starvation even and she'd refused to betray her friends, refused to betray her blood. She was wholly and completely _loyal_.

"I will never renounce Harry," she'd said. "I am proud of who I am and what I fought for."

.

 _We're both human,_ she'd told him. _And when you truly believed you didn't bother with any of this._

.

Then one day he'd come home a day early from a liaison trip with the Americas: ironically he'd assumed his father's old role as a diplomat and Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation – with a far greater need for it after the war, when his job was to soothe and persuade that Lord Voldemort knew what was best for Britain, and yes _indeed_ the society was much improved already.

He'd gone into his study and she'd been in there, reading one of _his_ books.

And he just hadn't _cared_ , not really, not any more. Perhaps enough of him remembered her as an eager (brilliant?) student waving her hand in the air, essays longer than she was tall, or perhaps he, who loved books too, couldn't deny her one level of humanity.

She'd gasped, dropping it, _horrified,_ but not _scared_ , and if she had been scared maybe he'd have reacted as expected, but he didn't.

"You may read," he said. "When your chores are finished and never in this room. Do not take more than one book at a time, and if I find them damaged you will be hanging from your thumbs for a week."

" _Thank you_ ," she'd said, eyes shining with tears, like a child at Yule and he'd turned away, abruptly, confused.

.

.

That had been the beginning of the end. He resisted for a while but then... he'd come home _deliberately_ early, hoping to catch her out of the bounds he'd set again. He hadn't been disappointed; she'd been choosing a new book.

He'd still denied noticing her body to himself, then. Four years ago.

"Sit," he'd said.

If he hadn't been arguing with his Master about the reintroduction of Muggle Studies (more than one foolhardy teenage Wizard had been _arrested_ by Muggles and their prestigious parents had actually argued – _petitioned_ \- for their children to be taught the basics of survival in the Muggle world) perhaps he wouldn't have been so curious about her, about her heritage.

She'd obeyed, perching warily on a chair by the desk.

"What was the last book you read?"

She'd named a rare tome on complicated Transfiguration theory.

He'd quizzed her on it, and she'd answered flawlessly, reciting passages of text without needing to refer to it, demonstrating and easy understanding of things he _knew_ would be far beyond most of his peers.

"Go," he'd told her. "Just – go."

He'd felt himself _unravelling_.

.

.

"Tell the girl she's to serve my supper," he'd told the house-elf one day, ignoring the voice in his head that said _no, this way lies danger,_ ignoring the part of him that said _you are lonely and she is company, beautiful and witty and clever and –_

"What is this?" he asked, poking at the plate of leaves.

"Salad, Sir," she said, frowning.

"Salad?"

"It's healthy. And from the garden."

"From the garden?" he'd asked surprised. He didn't have a vegetable garden, and to his surprise she'd blushed.

"I've been growing things… there's not much for me to do in the house. Buttons won't let me cook or clean. I get bored."

Four years as his slave and she'd remained wholly _Gryffindor_.

He'd eaten it, though, and she'd smiled.

.

.

One day, he'd told her to bring a book and join him. They'd sat by the fire, she on the floor, and he'd drank firewhiskey and she'd said,

 _Did you know Muggles have been to the moon?_

And she told him tales, unbelievable tales – unfathomable and amazing – about the world she'd been born in.

He'd called her a liar and sent her to bed, but she'd persisted, daring him to go to the Muggle world and find out and he _had_ and she'd been _right_.

.

.

Three years since they'd begun to grow together, gradually, until she'd shared his meals and been _company,_ and he'd begun to ache with need for her.

He'd made her a portkey necklace that would transport her to his side if any of his less savoury comrades became too curious about her, he'd given her books and potions to brew and they'd walked in the garden together and she'd shown him the flowers she'd planted as they came into bloom.

And he'd pretended not to ache for her, an ache that crept up on him, slipping through the cracks of his anger and despair at being betrayed by a man he'd worshipped like a god, through the puncture wounds of unlearning the doctrines of his childhood.

He'd breathed her in like spring breezes and one day, she'd set the table in the _garden_ and it was midsummer and the jasmine she'd planted the year was lacing the air with its heady sharp scent and he'd pulled her onto his lap and _kissed her, finally_ –

And it had been a _revelation_.

His skin had burned with her and it had been like falling upwards into the night sky, the stars bursting with golden warmth and –

She'd pulled away, and run into the house.

.

.

III – the woman

He'd _missed_ her. She'd hidden away for days, until finally he'd stormed up the stairs and into her room (filled with flowers and the names of those she loved written over and over in beautiful calligraphy on the walls, badly-drawn portraits of the boy-who-had-not-lived and the other one, whose name Barty couldn't remember and others, pictures and words like a mad woman's room, only it was _beautiful_ and hauntingly, unspeakably _sad_ and he felt -

he _felt_.)

He'd never seen her cry before, except under the most severe punishment – years before – but she cried that night.

 _I will not be your slave and your lover,_ she'd told him.

 _I am your equal. You may own me on that man's whim, but you don't own me inside and you never, ever will. I am not a slave. I am Hermione Granger._

She'd told him he'd never called her by her name. How badly she wanted to see somewhere that wasn't his house, but how _scared_ she was. How she scoured the newspapers, reading every single word to find a hint of her friends.

.

.

He'd found one of her friends, the Luna girl. She'd been married off to Dolohov, an unfortunate fate, (punishment really, but you couldn't enslave or execute fertile purebloods these days) but the man had died after two years, killed. After that she'd been married to Theo Nott.

"From what I can tell she seems happy enough. Would it please you for her to visit?" he'd asked and the rapture on her face made him _glow_ and pathetically, weakly, _yearn_ to please her.

"You – you could do that?"

"Yes, Hermione. I will do my best, but I will need a good excuse lest anyone connect the dots. You are still safest here – there are many, even now, who desire to own you. If you were less famous… but no, even disguised I would not take you away from here."

"Luna's an expert in uncategorised magical creatures. Say you believe you have an infestation of Wrackspurts."

.

 ** _Et tu, Brute? -_**

.

She'd started joining him for dinner again, but she'd kept her distance. Once Lord Voldemort himself had visited and she'd put on a simply amazing display of human hosue-elf, dirtying her face, and wearing her most ragged dress, one of the first he'd provided, and bowing her head, and Voldemort hadn't even bothered reading her mind. Just laughed and told her to bring him a drink.

But she'd kept her distance, returning to her room after she'd eaten, instead of reading with him or staying up late talking or playing chess, which he liked to do because he always won.

Until the day he told her he'd _had enough_ , that betrayal and hypocrisy cut too deep. The day he'd asked her to share the brilliance of her mind, a mind after-all that was _used_ to plotting against their master – a mind that, once removed from Potter had caused his downfall and death (something Bellatrix had been _lauded_ for, and thank Merlin and Salazar the girl had come to him instead of her).

 _Yes,_ she'd said. _Have you heard about Julius Caesar? There are mistakes we will not make._

 _And You are not good at plotting - you are brilliant but not... logical. The Triward cup was the most ridiculous and convoluted and over-dramatic assassination attempt I've ever seen. And there will be no room for Mark Anthonys here. No speech-making and drama. We will do it_ quietly _._

He'd bought a copy of a play as she instructed, a year ago, on one of his trips abroad, and she'd read it to him in the evenings.

And at the end of one of them, he'd taken her hands and said, _Please, Hermione._ And she'd leaned in, and kissed him, and he'd felt that star-studded burning blazing _joy_ again and he'd said _there is nothing I would not do to free you, now_. _I am sorry. So sorry._

 _I know_ , she said.

And her naked body in the firelight had been golden and lithe and he'd never, ever _imagined_ such bliss.

.

.

The Notts were not the only ones who helped. It had taken a year of careful plotting, of secret meetings and agreements and obliviating those who would not join them. She'd master-minded and organised and stunned him with her extraordinary brilliance and he was just -

her _messenger_. Her right hand. Her wand.

.

 ** _\- Then fall, Caesar!_**

.

And, when it was done, Theo was installed as Minister, and Barty had retired from the Ministry and accepted a place at Hogwarts.

 _A new order,_ they'd agreed.

Freedom.

.

.

.

She's scared, her hands _trembling_ as she takes the wand.

"It's been seven years," she says. "What if I can't…?"

"You can," he says. "You _can_. You are Hermione Granger, the greatest witch I have ever known."

(Not his equal. His _better_. He knows that now.)

And she says, " _Lumos_."

The light is almost blinding.

"Will you leave?" he asks, terrified.

"For a while. I need… to relearn how to be in the world."

"Let me help you. Hermione, I know I am undeserving but I love you. I would do _anything._ "

"You have set me free," she says. "And for that I'll come back. But this has been my _cage_ , and even though you have been far kinder than another man might have been – I know I've been _lucky_ , really, so lucky - I just need to feel _free_ again."

.

And so she leaves, she goes to the Muggle world to find her parents, to travel, to escape. She has money, she explains, savings and inheritance and she just needs to _go_.

He believes her promise to return though. She is _loyal_.

.

.

It's three years since she left, to the day, when he gets her letter. He's the Headmaster of Hogwarts now, the natural affinity for teaching she'd once told him he had – _I know you were pretending to be Moody, and you were cruel and harsh, but actually compared to most of the others you were really_ good.

 _Coming home_ , she writes. _How's the garden?_

He weeps. He does not deserve it.

.

.

She takes her rightful place in the Ministry, and they whisper _Saviour-Slave_ in awe because they know it was her and gradually she undoes some of the damage caused by years and years of bad management and war and an endless history of _bigotry_ and –

He's happy. She has _saved_ him, his slave who set him free.

She refuses to marry him, to take his name but she bears him - _them_ \- Brutus and Marcus and Julia. He does not make the mistakes his father did.

.

.

* * *

Great prompt from SPE reviewer RobinQ, thank you. I hope you liked it!

What did you think guys?!

Find me on Tumblr for more rare pair madness - cocoartistwrites.

x


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